


International Economy

by redandgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, Rated for swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 07:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3642009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't just dig out your heart, wrap it in a parcel and post it from Manchester to Madrid. Don't be silly. It's far more economical for someone to take it with him when he leaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	International Economy

**Author's Note:**

> "International Economy is the affordable answer to posting overseas when you’re not in a rush. It’s easy to use and ideal for heavier items. Compensation is included and we aim to deliver your mail to: Western Europe in up to 2 weeks."  
> -Royal Mail

David –

David.

Hi, David.

You know, I’ve almost forgotten what you look like. I know, it’s odd, you being plastered on every fucking billboard in the world and all that. I only clip the good ones, mind, and there’s not many of those. That’s not the same face I can’t remember (am trying to forget). That one was…true. Beautiful, of course, you genetic lottery golden ticket wanker, but kind and honest and true.

~~And mine –~~

But let’s not.

 

**~*~**

 

Dear David,

I don’t know how it is out there. Are they very loud, the Spanish? Do they talk your ear off? I mean, if it’s still there. Sorry about all that, hah. Anyway, I hope you’re doing well - !

~~I hoped~~

~~I hope~~

I suppose it’s warmer than Manchester, Madrid. Paler, too. Could tell you a funny story, if you’re keen. Phil caught me on my browser history yesterday. Said I’d been googling you. Funny that, isn’t it? Searching for you when I know exactly where to find you.

They should make a new error message. “Subject does not want to be found.”

 

**~*~**

 

Dear David,

I sat in the Stretford End today. Red plastic foldable seat, number on it (7, thought you’d never ask); just sat there looking down at the grass we step on. Crinkly grass. Feels different, stepping on it, compared to looking down. We must look like ants, or pawns.

I swing my foot out. It hits the edge of the chair in front of me. The chair shivers, shudders with a yawning sigh, almost as if it’s more alive than I am. I open my mouth and your name comes out.

Right bloody typical, Phil would've said.

 

**~*~**

 

Once must be the saddest word I know. Once means no longer, no more.

You loved me once, didn’t you.

 

**~*~**

 

Da-vid.

There is a word in the English language for this, disjunction, the state of being disconnected, separate and detached. In this case it’s two places in the world. Perhaps it’s your brain and my heart. Perhaps it was always just the two of us.

Da –

Disjunction. Noun. A word so solid and unmoving that it can never hope to be overcome.

– vid.

 

**~*~**

 

David,

Do you remember the right wing? Streaking down that side with the lads. I don’t suppose you remember who taught you how to cross the ball. I keep looking up and it’s not the number seven. Like the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle. I guess that’s why the gaffer keeps telling me not to pass into empty spaces.

Do you remember, once, how we lay under the stars? Not up to anything. Not even talking, really. Just flat on the ground with our faces turned towards the stars and the moonlight flicking down on our faces. It was on cold, crinkly grass.

My pitch. (Not yours not really.) I turned my head to watch you. Your eyes were closed. You looked a right angel, you did. I reached around for your hand. You opened your eyes; I found my pocket. “That’s what we are,” you said. “Stars.”

Well, not really. Not all of us. I saw the crease of your lip turn up into a little smile – nothing else changed – just that curve of your lip. You’re the brightest star that ever burned, and all of them are dead.

 

**~*~**

 

Sometimes it is an echo that crashes like waves on a beach. Sometimes it is a KLAXXON BLARING FUCKING CAPITAL LETTERS D A V I D. Sometimes it is a whisper you hear as you disrespect the dead, sitting on a gravestone during Halloween. Sometimes it is a curious, tinny sound, like someone trapped in a metal pipe. But always your name. Always your name.

 

**~*~**

 

I love you.

 

**~*~**

Dear David,

I’m sorry I never returned your calls. Or replied to your texts. I would write you, but a funny thing happens: all these letters somehow end up in the top right pocket of the desk. It’s bloody overflowing now, let me tell you that. I’ll have to find some poor Scouse sod to clean up.

The stars are bright tonight. I remember saying that to you. I remember you telling me how you liked the stars. I remember wanting to hold your hand, David. I remember wanting to hold your hand.

Strains of an old song drift by - _and you can have this heart to break_. I close my eyes. For a moment you’re there, with me, besides me. If I reach out I will touch your hand and everything will be okay.

I open my eyes and reach out and you aren’t there, once you were there and now you aren’t. I’m twenty nine years old and my shirt is red and I’m sitting at a desk alone gazing out at blinking stars I cannot touch.

And so it goes, and so it goes, and so did you too I suppose.

 


End file.
